What is it? For what do you scheme? Ethine's death would weigh on you and the stain of her blood would seep into your skin" "Do you know what they wish for when they give you the Unseelie crown?" Roiben's tone was soft, like he was telling a secret. Kaye could barely catch his words. "That you be made of ice. What makes you think it matters what I feel? What makes you think I feel anything at all?
He was saying that the end of the world wasn't an accident; it was a joke.
But if you didn't believe in monsters, then how were you going to be able to keep safe from them?
Being infected, being a vampire, it’ s always you. Maybe it’ s more you than ever before. It’ s you as you always were, deep down inside.
I thought of how proud he was when he took the marks- cutting the skin of his throat in a long slash and then packing it with ashes until keloid scars rose up. He called it his second smile.
I’ve stripped my life down,” he told me. “I don’t need much. I have all the company I want to keep right in here.” He shot himself in the head with his fingers. “People don’t understand about the need to live simply. They make appointments all day. They even schedule their own deaths. The first time they’ll have freedom to really be themselves is when they no longer exist. But up here, there’s nothing but me and the sky. A million billion stars.
Greg stands up, wiping his mouth. "I saw your mother's trial in the paper, Sharpe. I know you're just like her." "If I was, I would make you beg to blow me," I sneer.
So what are you really wearing?" The words left her mouth before she could consider them. She winced. He didn't seem to mind; in fact, he flashed her one of his brief smiles. "And if I said nothing at all?" "Then I would point out that sometimes, if you look at something out of the corner of your eye, you can see right through glamour," she returned. That brought surprised laughter. "What a relief to us both then that I am actually wearing exactly what you saw me in this afternoon. Although one might point out that in that outfit, your last concern should be my modesty.
My head is pounding. I wish the mints were aspirin.
I can't trust the people I care about not to hurt me. And I'm not sure I can trust myself not to hurt them, either.
I have no memory of climbing the stairs up to the roof. I don't even know how to get where I am, which is a problem since I'm going to have to get down, ideally in a way that doesn't involve dying.
Flattery will get you everywhere," Sam says, "Except, apparently, off a roof.
Once someone's hurt you, it's harder to relax around them, harder to think of them as safe to love. But it doesn't stop you from wanting them.
Magic gives you a lot of choices," Grandad says. "Most of them are bad.
Oh- and grab the plastic bag over by my suitcase." I slug down the last of the coffee and get up. The bag contains panty hose. I put them on her desk. "They're for you." "You want me to look homeless, desperate, but also kind of fabulous?
I know how to be the witness to her grief. I don't know how to be this kind of villain.
One fine day, in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other. They pulled out their swords and shot one another. One deaf cop, on the beat heard the noise, and came and shot the two dead boys.
No trouble ever got fixed late at night," he said. "Midnight is for regrets.
The moment she was cursed, I lost her. Once it wears off- soon- she will be embarrassed to remember things that she said, things she did, things like this. No matter how solid she feels in my arms, she is made of smoke.
If you keep it," Daneca says, "he'll have his claws in you." Everyone has their claws in me. Everyone.
I got bored," he says. "Besides, you know what's creepier than walking around your dead brothers' apartment? Sitting alone in a hearse in front of his apartment.
You sure you want to cross me?" In that moment she's her father's daughter.
Let me look out for you. Let your enemies become mine.
You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he's done, or come to like it too much.
Carney is like a graveyard where everyone already owns their plots and has built houses on top of them.
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